The Mark of Hircine
by Taransay
Summary: A man stands accused of being a werewolf. You must prove his innocence before it's too late. Vilkas/Dovahkiin


I.

Those that Know About Wolves.

Two Nords amble up the stairs. Their large frames fill the stairway.

'Caught the bastard though,' the one in front says. He twists one of the braids in his beard between a chunky finger and thumb. In his other large hand he carries a mug of ale.

'Nord you say?' says the one behind.

'Nord. Terrible days we live in. Nords killing Nords.'

The man in front nods and thanks you for allowing him and his friend to pass.

'The Butcher again?'

You follow Ciinnafil down the stairs and hear the gruff voice of the first Nord. 'No,' he says. 'This one's different.'

As you enter the bottom floor of the tavern, the drunken guffaws and the bard's Anti-Imperial song fade into the background.

'What did you say?' A female Dunmer stands in the small entrance hall, gloved hands on her hips.

The landlady stands as stiff as a rod of iron behind the desk. 'You heard.' She narrows her eyes, curls her lips into a sneer. 'We can tolerate you for one night, but it's an extra ten coin for the likes of you. Don't like it? Go to the Grey Quarter.'

'Charming,' Ciinnafil mutters, as you reach the front door. 'The hospitality of Candlehearth Hall to none Nords, never ceases to amaze me.'

You pull the hood up on your cloak and follow Ciinnafil out into the early afternoon.

'I'm sorry you came all this way to see me,' Ciinnafil says.

The cold air embraces you as you leave the warm fires of Candlehearth Hall behind closed doors. Already your cheeks sting.

'It's just not my area of expertise.' Ciinnafil's hands linger over the flames of a cauldron positioned close to the steps that lead up to Candlehearth Hall.

Your stomach withers with the burden of disappointment.

'But,' she says. 'I think I can help not make your journey a wasted one.'

She springs down the steps and bounds towards the left road. You follow.

At first you think Ciinnafil will take the road that leads into the broken and warren-like streets of what has been dubbed as the 'Grey Quarter'. Instead she turns and leads you up steps, and away from the labyrinthine, squashed streets of the world below.

The wind exhales flakes of snow into your face. They rest upon your eyelashes and you blink a few times to bat them away.

Windhelm is like an old Nord woman, muffled in a grey, tattered shawl. The snow dampens sound. Clumps of drab clouds lie low over the city, and the looming stonewalls that pen in businesses and homes only add to the feeling of claustrophobia.

The city walls retreat as you reach the top part of the city. You walk through small courtyards with primitive benches, and colourless shrubs that tremble in the ice-tipped breeze.

'I don't know how he's done it,' Ciinnafil says. Her void-like eyes dart from side to side. 'Mainly Nords who live up here, and you've seen how welcoming some of them are to none Nords.' She snorts. 'I suspect he rents the place. Done a favour for someone and they owe him, or something.'

You both approach a house tucked away in the corner of one of the courtyards. There's an empty stone pot next to the front door. Two window slits either side of the door are sealed with wooden shutters.

'I'll warn you,' Ciinnafil says, 'Elien lives alone. He doesn't interact much with the outside world.' She raps her knuckles against the door, and flecks of wooden splinter off. 'So he may come across a bit gruff. I can only apologise in advance.'

Ciinnafil brushes her hands against her mage robes, gazes at the sky and chews her bottom lip.

When no immediate reply comes from the house, she pounds on the door.

'Elien! Come on, open up! I know you're in there! You may avoid the Aldmeri Dominion, but you can't avoid me!'

She stops hitting the door, turns, looks up at you and grins. 'Won't be a moment,' she says, and she draws back a foot and lets it slam into the door.

'You can't ignore me forever Elien! I'm not going away.'

The door shunts open an inch, just as Ciinnafil is about to kick it again.

A long, angular face peers out from the crack in the doorway. 'Gods spare me,' The Altmer in the doorway snaps. 'It's you.'

The door groans and shudders as the Altmer pushes the door open further.

'What took you so long?' Ciinnafil says. 'I've brought someone to see you.'

'So I can see,' Elien says. There's a note of distaste in his voice. He stifles a yawn with the back of his slender hand. There are dark rims beneath his golden eyes. 'Some of us have been up before the sun,' he says, staring at Ciinnafil again. 'Working. Now, whatever it is. Whatever you are selling, I am not interested. No trinkets or talismans, no potions -'

'But my friend -'

Elien snaps his head towards you. He looks you up and down. You look at the ground, shift your weight from one foot to another.

'I do not want anything off them either. Go away.'

Elien pushes his shoulder into the door, is about to shunt it closed, but Ciinnafil wedges her foot into the gap in the doorway, and tuts.

'Not very polite, is it Elien?' she says. 'Not after I brought my friend to help you with your studies.'

Elien stops trying to sever Ciinnafil's foot with the door. 'Whatever can you mean?'

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle. All of a sudden you feel like a bargaining chip.

Ciinnafil leans towards Elien. 'Werewolf,' she whispers. 'My friend can turn into -'

'I know what a werewolf is,' Elien snaps. As quick as a thief pocketing coin, his gaze is back upon you. 'There's no cure. Happy hunting.'

The Altmer kicks the Bosmer's foot away from the doorway, and slams the door in Ciinnafil's face.

'But, they've seen Hircine!' she calls through the wood.

You enter Elien's house and step into the main living area.

There's a empty fireplace against one of the walls. From the ceiling hangs a crude, wooden chandelier with stubs of candles. Only some of them are lit. Bookcases stuffed with tatty books, boarder the room.

The front door slams behind you. You turn. Elien stands by it, wringing his hands. Ciinnafil isn't with him, but you can hear her the other side of the front door.

'Thank you.' comes her muffled voice.

Elien looks over his shoulder. 'Go away,' he growls.

The Altmer extends a long, thin finger and points you towards one of the elaborately carved, wooden chairs, that surround a square table in the centre of the room.

'She is a good girl,' he says, and takes the chair opposite you. 'But like all Bosmer, she is a pain. You happen to befriend them one night, and then they never leave you alone.'

Elien reaches for a stone decanter perched upon a stack of books, and pours himself a drink into a tall, thin glass. 'They are like dogs.' He sneers. 'Does not matter how many times you kick them, they always come back for more. But she does have her uses, bless her. Drink?'

You decline the offer.

'It wasn't you last night, was it?' He chuckles, and adjusts the embroidered pillow he sits on.

You wonder what he means. Last night? What happened last night? Your pulse increases. You lift your head and stare at Elien.

'Hmm... fancy a late night snack, did you?' Elaine says.

You ask what he means.

'Last night. Werewolf attack.'

An erratic race of thoughts charge through you mind.

Elien meets your gaze.

What's he getting at?

You do not look away.

The memories of last night shuffle into order. You were at Candlehearth Hall all night. You left your rented room to eat dinner in the tavern upstairs. Then you returned to it and spoke to Vilkas.

A list forms in your head of all the people who could vouch for you, say that they saw you, that you didn't leave inn. Ciinnafil, Vilkas, the landlady and possibly the bard from the tavern upstairs.

Elien swishes his drink around in the glass, grins. 'Could not have been you of course, they have the man in custody. Found him right near the scene of the crime.' He licks his lips. 'One of the guards asked me to take a look at the body.' Elien sinks into his chair. 'I am a bit of an expert around here, you see. They take me very seriously.' He brings the drinking glass to his lips and gazes at you with narrow, feline eyes over the rim.

'I study manbeast of all kind. But lycanthropy is my speciality. Most importantly I am a scholar of the Daedric Prince many know as Hircine.'

He lurches upright in his seat, slams the glass onto the table, causing remnants of his drink to jump out of the glass and splatter the wooden table in red droplets.

Your muscles tense.

'But here is my dilemma. You are my little conundrum. I have spoken to a lot of people throughout my years. I have spoken to a lot of time wasters. You are not a time waster are you? Altmer lives are long, but I consider every second I spend on Nirn to be precious, and let us just say any time waster who enters my domain, never exits in a happy mood.'

The wind howls down the chimney. Flakes of snow fall like petals onto the black ash in the hearth.

Time waster? Is that what he thinks. You should have just left Windhelm when Ciinnafil said she wouldn't be able to help.

You lean forwards in the chair.

'I have spoken to people who have said they have seen Hircine, even conversed with him. They were all liars of course. Why should I think you are any different?'

You have no intention of explaining yourself to someone who labels you as a liar.

The chair tousles the threadbare carpet beneath you, as you push it backwards to stand.

'Let me make this very clear. I am not interested in your visions, your fantasies.'

You've had enough.

'Anyone of us can have those. A bit of Moon Sugar, Skooma and we can all see and speak with Hircine.' He stands and points a finger at you. 'That is it, is it not? You are a Skooma addict. I should have known. Ciinnafil is always wasting my time. Get out. Get out now before I make you regret you ever came looking for Elien.'

You clench your hands into fists, stride towards the door and long for the cold of outside to hit you in the face and reassure you that you are out of this mad mer's house.

A hand latches around your wrist.

You turn, and Elien pulls on your arm.

'Where are you going!' he demands. 'I have not finished with you yet.'

You wonder whether you should remind him that he told you to leave, but the intensity of his glare makes you reconsider.

Your cloak falls to the floor and Elien's grip causes the sleeve on your to ruffle.

When he sees your scar he is silent, but only for a second.

'Oh,' he says, and his eyes are wide like a fox who has just stumbled into a household's larder of salted meat. 'Oh! Oh, oh! But this!'

You attempt to pull your arm free, but his grip tightens.

'This. Now this is special.'

Elien's smooth fingers run over the bumps and discoloured skin of the scar on your arm, and you feel a sensation like one thousand spiders scuttling up your spine.

'Tell me about this. _This. _Is it what I think it is? Of course, _it must be. _Werewolf bite. Hmm... but I wager, not how you caught lycanthropy. No this. _This. _This came from Hircine himself.

He meets your eyes and a disjointed smile parts his lips.

'Tell me everything.'


End file.
